Ignite Your Bones
by love will not hurt
Summary: After Sam's father dies, his eating disorder spirals out of control, and for some reason, Noah Puckerman will not relent. Warning: Eating Disorder, Abuse, and Sexual Content.


Author Notes: My first Glee story. I wrote this in one go, and I hope I didn't butcher anyone too badly. I'm aware I always write a little out of character, it's a curse of mine. Bare with me, people. Please lend me a review, I haven't written for nine months. Further apologies for any mistakes, I am my own beta. Song and lyrics are from _Fix You_ by Coldplay.

Rating: M

Pairing: Noah Puckerman/Sam Evans

Disclaimer: I own a new pair of Nike running shoes, a bag full of Nectarines, and a 2009 copy of a Jonas Brother Album. No Glee. No Ryan Murphy. And thankfully, no Fox.

.

**Lights follow you home**

**And ignite your bones**

**And I will try to fix you**

**.**

Sam can't seem to wake up. His eyes don't focus correctly, like his whole life is in a blur and he can't seem to zero in on what matters. His head aches, more than it's ever ached, and his muscles feel like they've shriveled up and died. The only place he can seem to escape is through sleep, because thank god he sleeps soundlessly and without dream. There's a handful of Ambien on his night stand and he takes two. His stomach grumbles with hunger, but he doesn't listen.

He needs this. This time away.

.

His mother likes to clean, she likes to keep things very orderly and flawless. She's a Swedish woman with a pretty rotund accent, and to Sam it always seemed like a barrier between them, even though as a child he understood everything she said perfectly in English and in Swedish. His father had been an American bank investor, in need to a trophy wife who give everything and take nothing in return.

That's harsh and his mother _is_ smart, smarter than she lets on, she's well-mannered and pretty, with a stone cold heart of an soldier, someone who never needed to cry. Even as a child, Sam always felt like crying even without reason. He could never seem to find the tears, like there wasn't enough saline in him, and sometimes at night he'd sob into his pillow. In the morning, his face would be dry and his eyes wouldn't be rimmed red and for some reason this felt like a personal failure, too.

When his father dies, he is sixteen-going-on-seventeen and his mother doesn't cry. She does, however, run herself a bath and talks to her mother who lives in Sweden and who Sam has never met. He's long forgotten his mother's native language, but even in Swedish, she sounds miserable.

.

It was summer time, just after Sam's junior year had ended. His father was All-American, slightly pudgy, liked wearing polo's the color of puce and sherbet, and had the same color of eyes that Sam did. He always pushed Sam to play soccer and lacrosse, and he always called Sam Sammy, like it was a personal joke made between the two before Sam could remember. His father always talked down to his mother, not in a particularly snide way, but in a smug, arrogant fashion that always left Sam slightly distraught but equally enthralled. He loved his father, but he did not like him very much.

Being the son of a wealthy man had it's perks, like going to schools with opportunity and having dinners at nice restaurants. Sam never had to know what it was like to go without a dentist check up, or buy clothes worn by someone else, or be surrounded by people who didn't recycle or speak correctly. He did, however, know what it was like to only be nice to people that had more money than him, or have company who was only nice to him because he had more money than them. He knew how to manipulate the illegitimate housemaids, and look down upon poor people, and he'd many times over watched the secrets people kept from each other for no apparent reason.

Life insurance takes care of his mother and him for probably the rest of her life and easily his college tuition, but if he never felt as if they were quite a complete family, he certainly feels like he's been left by both parents now. The white contemporary furniture that expanded on the Evans's decadence and taste seemed lifeless and uncomfortable, and Sam resorted to his room almost all of the time. The windows seemed to let in the wrong light, and the appliances seemed to hum the wrong tune, and Sam realizes that the alone he used to feel was nothing like this.

.

He spends very little time in his house anymore, riding around Lima like he had any business fitting in with the rest of the people. Though mainly conservative and small town, Sam finds refuge in the small Mexican neighborhoods, where he turns the corner and the whole street seems to light up with liveliness and passion. He does not recognize the smells of carnitas, seasoned tortillas and fresh fruit, but he walks along the cracked pavement where there are carts of soda and cigarettes. Pretty Mexican girls he's never seen at McKinley sun bath on the balconies of the crumbling apartment buildings, clotheslines string above his head. The music and blatant poverty seems to fill his heart, like these people are happy to be alive and have no shame.

Sometimes he rides to the river where the white women and frat boys get drunk off light beer; these types of people he recognizes but does not really like. He rarely registers the smiles from some of the girls that look his way, and when he does, he is consumed with a sort of emptiness that reminds him of his mother, with her perfectly manicured nails, reading on the white sofa in the white living room. It's hot, the sun freckling his pale skin and making him tinge pink, so he swims and holds his breath and wonders if he could die in here, if it would be that easy. The children splashing in the puddles, some with the waterproof diapers on, stop him. That would be a pretty corpse, he thinks, but not entirely a pretty sight.

.

The first time he sees Noah Puckerman he's at the grocery store buying cucumbers and protein shakes. Sam's starving, he can't remember the last time he ate. He pauses at the diet soda briefly, when down the aisle is Puck, glaring at the different types of beer before making a selection on some hipster brand and grabbing a pack. He sees Sam and freezes, and Sam freezes, and the coldness of the freezer section gives Sam goosebumps.

"Hey," Puck says, and for some reason, his voice sounds hoarse. "I heard about your dad, a few weeks ago. Look man, I should like, sent a card or something but -"

"Nah," Sam interrupts, a horrible image of Puck trying to pick out a comforting card coming to his mind, "I mean, don't worry about it. I don't even want to think about it."

Puck looks the epitome of guilty and Sam finds himself focused on the way his eyebrows arch up. His adam apple bobs, and Puck looks away for a moment, muttering, "See you, then, I guess."

Sam can't really understand why he feels like he can't breathe, but he isn't hungry anymore and hurries quickly out of the store.

.

Sam tries to sleep, tries to welcome that dreamless, imageless, soundless, blanket of all-numbing sleep, but instead he dreams of Puck. Puck sits on the floor next to him, his eyebrows arched up in that expression of concern, and Sam knows it isn't real, but it scares him, before Puck is looking into his very soul, Puck is pushing his fingers into Sam's ribcage and stringing out his organs, one by one, like the clothes on a clothesline above Sam's head.

Sam wakes up in a blur and cries without tears, but not because his father is dead.

.

The second time, Sam is riding his bike through a pretty deserted trail, where the trees are light green and filter the summer light through. He sees someone lying on one of the decrepit benches and he thinks homeless, immediately, and the way his father used to blatantly ignore poor people even when they begged for change and how that really used to make Sam sad, even though he couldn't explain why it did.

It's Puck, however, looking passed out and raggedy and somehow, younger. Sam stops his bike and stands over him. There's dried blood on Puck's mouth and a purple smudge on his neck and collar that looked nasty and slightly deformed. Sam can't help himself; he puts out a hand and shakes Puck awake. When he opens his eyes, Puck reminds him of Fourth of July, and those firecrackers that light up and sparkle.

"Wha-?" Puck seems to slur, before blinking twice and getting a good look at who the intruder was. "Evans?" he mumbles groggily, and Sam gets a sense of dread. This was a bad idea.

"You okay?" Sam says instead, and Puck shakes his head no, he's not okay. He'd know Puck distantly through Quinn, a pretty blonde girl that reminded him of his ruthless father, though she had eyes like his mother and he found that all the beauty she contained could not sway him to love her like she deserved. He knew that Puck had been to juvie, and that he had tainted Quinn; in what way, he doesn't know.

He knew Puck wasn't one for vulnerability, and when Puck tries to sit up, he grips his head tightly, and sways. Sam understands the feeling of the world spinning without his control. Sam finds himself pulling Puck's arm over his shoulder and steadying him, he leaves his bike in the grass and doesn't care if it's there the next time he returns. They walk the mile back to his house, a white colonial that was surrounded by trees and seemed to be in permanent mourning. Puck's heavy, and Sam feels weak for some reason, but he lets them in and leads Puck to his bathroom on the second floor.

They sit on the edge of the tub and Sam cleans the dried blood off Puck's lip and tries to get him to gargle salt water. Sam comes to conclusion that Puck is either still drunk or really hung-over; his eyes seem to be out of focus and he tries saying 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' but everything that Puck says sounds sloppy and despairing and Sam can't think of sadness, can't let it consume him -

So instead he takes Puck by the armpits and moves him to his bedroom. Puck's covered in dirt and leaves and smells like nature, booze and body wash. Puck looks around at the white bedroom and even in his hazy stupor he seems wary or perhaps enticed; whatever the reason is Sam watches as he shrugs off his muddy jeans and his t-shirt. Sam has a hard time not looking at his body, the curve of his arms and the tan lines between his shoulders; foreign jealousy strikes him in a second because Puck has this certain liveliness, a certain beauty and perfection Sam will never understand or possess. Instead of breaking things, or breaking himself in frustration, he pushes Puck gently onto his crème colored bed, pulling the feather-light duvet around him. Puck falls asleep within seconds, and Sam wonders if he dreams.

.

"Do you have, like, any saline and a little contact container?" This is the first thing Noah Puckerman says when he wakes up. "I slept in my contacts, and I need to take them out."

Sam's sitting on the floor next to the small balcony off his room, letting the night breeze waft in and lift the suffocating, stagnant air. Sam looks up; his stomach aches and his head hurts terribly. His father used to wear contact lenses and his mother more than likely hadn't thrown out his kit; when he travels to the master bathroom and looks in the second drawer next to the white porcelain sinks; he isn't wrong. He grabs the solution and a small case, bringing them to Puck. He places them on the bedside table, but before Puck can say another word, he disappears to the kitchen.

Sam always got strangely emotional in the kitchen, even when he wasn't hungry or about to eat. He felt this weird rise in him, like his lungs were full of too much air and his torso was too small to hold them. He placed ice in a cup and filled it with water. He wondered what someone like Puck would eat - raw meat and the preservative ridden yellow macaroni and cheese? Instead he puts peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat bread, tries to ignore the stench of it and brings it up to his room. It's interesting, Sam thinks, that the one piece of color in his room seems to be Puck, bright and vibrant and burning against the pale blankets. He shoves the sandwich in front of his teammate, but keeps the water to himself. The coldness of the ice slipping down in his throat and insides seems to erase the hunger pangs, and he leans against the door way, the cool wood pressing against his throbbing temple and helping to ease the pain.

"Thanks, Sam." He takes a bite, shifts in the duvet, and rubs a hand through his Mohawk, before putting his hand down and rolling his shoulder tentatively, wincing at a pain Sam didn't fathom. "You know, when I said, 'see you' I didn't exactly mean this."

Sam can't manage a smile, so instead he asks, "What happened to you?"

Puck, for once, looks uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than that time that Quinn had degraded him in front of the Glee club last May, screaming _that he had done enough already_. Sam tucks that memory away, along with Quinn's strawberry-pink toenails and the curve of her smile that happened to look both awful and lovely at the same time.

Sam speaks again, sensing a strange irritability rising in his throat. "I kind of like, rescued you from the wilderness. And nursed you back to health. And fed you."

"You forgot that you undressed me." Puck points out, a desperate smile on his mouth. Sam feels his cheeks turn a slightly pink.

"You undressed yourself, actually." Sam spits back, before rubbing his eyes. His head throbbed on.

"Evans, you know, you don't look so good." Puck said, pulling his legs over the bed and walking towards him. Sam can't help but absorb the way Puck's legs look, the calf muscles taut and achingly perfect. He swallows roughly as Puck came closer, his face inches away from Sam's. Puck's eyes were an amber brown, and he had a tiny mole on his cheek. Sam can feel his breath on his upper lip when he mutters, "You look a little sick."

"I'm fine," Sam blurts out, and then Puck's kissing him. Everything in Sam's mind seems to blank and then he's kissing back and that Fourth of July moment from earlier? Yeah, it's back, and there are there bright, fire lit candles in his bones, his eyes flutter closed and he is _burning. _Puck's fingers come up to cradle his jaw line and he arches his back so his body presses closer to the other boy, his skin cold and tingly against Puck's warmth. From one moment of hurried kissing to another where Sam's legs hit the corner of his bed, both boys fall back into the feather comforter with a small _oomph_.

Sam feels more alive than he has in three weeks, and distinctly he can taste the peanut butter in Puck's mouth, feels the calluses on his fingers as they grope his hips, that night breeze waft over his shoulders -

"Sam," Puck whispers, looking into his eyes, and Sam can see something he's never quite recognized in Puck before: Fear. Want. These are primal thoughts that Sam's not used to feeling - his wants and urges are always muted, suffocated by the sterile house and the death of his father and that fact that his mother doesn't even speak to him in English anymore -

And suddenly Sam knows what he wants. "Don't speak." He places his lips back onto Puck's, his hand dipping below Puck's waistband, and that is the last time either of them say a word.

.

Before Sam went to McKinley there was a boy he thought he liked, and this boy came over and kissed him and touched him in places only Sam had touched before - and okay, Sam was gay, he knew he was. Not gay like Kurt Hummel who was loud and proud and pretty much a diva, because Sam's pretty sure he used to like sports and video games and smoking a lot of pot. He came to this conclusion one night when he was fourteen after he tried to cry and only came up with dry heaves; for once the world didn't seem so big and Sam could think clearly.

Then, with the realization that, _I'm gay_, shit got a lot more difficult. The boy from Sam's old school was a soccer star and was about to go to Stanford on a scholarship. The night before he left he came to visit Sam, and when he left Sam tried to cry in the bathroom next to the toilet, but all he could think was how fat and imperfect he had felt, and the only thing that came up was the meal he had eaten previously.

.

Light displays the morning through the window and Sam opens his eyes to the most intense stomach pains he's ever felt. He immediately clutches his abdomen and curls into a ball, trying not to breathe so loudly. He's aware that the bed is empty, and the heat that ignited his bones the few hours before was slipping away as the pain clenched his muscles in his gut. He gulped for air before closing his eyes, trying to escape that tight churning beneath his finger tips.

Puck seems to come out of no where, and even though Sam's eyes are squeezed shut, he can smell the other boy - his hands are wet as he tries to push Sam's hair out of his eyes and he keeps saying things Sam can't seem to hear. Then, Sam leans over and pukes, the acid burning his tongue and the his cracked lip; it's a bunch of water and half-digested Ambien on a Puck's discarded shirt from the other night. In a sick twist of irony, the puke puddles in the t-shirt but doesn't touch the perfect, pale shag carpet.

"Dude, are you okay?" Puck asks, his eyes alight with worry. Again with the naked emotions. Sam can't seem to look him in the eye, suddenly irritated at Puck and the throw-up in his mouth.

When the world re-focuses, he hisses, "I'm fine."

"Why don't you actually tell the truth?" Puck accuses angrily, glaring at him. Sam sits up and returns the look, the sunshine and the beauty of the morning contradicting the sickness he felt. Sick of being angry, sick of being confused, sick of calorie counting and ignoring the ache, sick of not knowing who the hell he was -

"Why don't you actually tell the truth?" he shoots back. Puck looks defiant, his chest jutting out and he stands up straight. Sam stands up straight, even though the room turns on it's side and he has trouble staying still. He does, however, find no trouble in mustering up enough anger.

"What the fuck are you talking about? What truth?"

"Look at you!" Sam's voice is louder than it has been in months, and he points a finger at the strange colors that mar Puck's skin. In the back of Sam's mind, he observes that they look kind of beautiful. The blues mixing with the purples and the green-yellows like wet paint on a canvas. "Don't even think of telling me that you just ran into a wall, Puckerman. A fist shaped wall, maybe-"

Sam's barely able to get the rest of his sentence out before Puck's crossed the small space between them and pushed Sam into the wall, his hand wrapped around Sam's neck as he shoves his head back. Sam can hear his skull _thwack _against the wall, but he doesn't feel it - he does feel the air knock out of him however and his lips open in an effort to get a breath.

Puck's voice comes from somewhere next to his ear, his breath hot and his words heated. "My father comes around every few months and he's a _fucking _waste of space but my ma loves that asshole and _every time _he comes around he gets raging drunk and I know, _I fucking know _if he didn't take it out on me, he'd find my ma or my little sister and I am not about to let that fucking happen, am I? I take it because it's easier, okay? There's your fucking _truth_, Evans. Don't _think_ I haven't figured out what you're doing to yourself."

They're both breathing hard and when Sam sinks to the ground, Puck's fingers have moved away from his neck, but they both lean against the wall. Sam's acutely aware that there shoulders are touching, and maybe the bruises don't look so beautiful as they do fascinating - in a terrible heart-wrenching fashion that makes Sam want to look away. He doesn't. Instead, he speaks.

"We were driving home. My dad was pissed because I hurt my shoulder, and that I wasn't QB anymore. He swerved into the other lane and …the fucker wasn't even wearing his seatbelt. I loved my dad, but I fucking hated him, too." The words feel foreign to Sam and his tongue feels tight and yeah, his throat fucking aches and his heart is hammering hard in his chest. He doesn't feel so numb anymore.

Oh, but the pain feels so great inside of him, he wants to curl up into a ball and wish the world away, yet he can't, he's alive and he can feel every pin and needle, it consumes him, crashing in waves against his body and then all Sam can focus on is that _Puck's hand is holding his_.

"What are we doing?" Sam whispers, and he's scared to know the answer. He's too weak for Puck to figure out he's not gay and leave and tell everyone what a big fucking homo Sam is, because Sam knows history repeats itself but maybe, maybe this time could be different -

"I don't know." Puck looks off into the balcony, and then Sam's stomach flips (for once, not from the lack of nutrition) when he smiles a little. He looks a little sadder, and a little more lost, but perhaps Sam would be the only one who notices. "You puked in my shirt, though."

Sam feels his lip crack and bleed when he smiles. "Yeah, I did."

.

Sam takes Puck and shows him around the street where the Soda carts are, the Mexican women who were all three feet shorter than them and a hundred times scarier, smiling and telling Sam how thin he looks. Sam knows Puck slips a glance when Sam's physique is brought up, but he pretends not to notice and ignores the emptiness in his gut. (They don't name what's going between them.) Sam's afraid of what might happen to him if he puts food in his mouth. It's that simple, but saying it is a world of complication. Puck doesn't understand, but he slips his fingers across Sam's palm in a brief moment, before wolf-whistling at the pretty Mexican girls on the roof sunbathing. Sam laughs, and the sound doesn't even register until he's around the corner.

Puck made him laugh.

.

They start to see each other every day, and Sam stops taking the Ambien because on some nights, Puck will slip into bed with him and Sam wants the ability to open his eyes and see Puck's drooling, sleeping face next to him. He tries to hide the disappointment when Puck isn't there, but he doesn't want all-numbing sleep anymore, especially when he dreams of possibilities and impossibilities - with Puck, those two things appeared forever intertwined.

July seeped into August and the weather got hotter, Sam's mother took a trip to their beach house in Connecticut to see if she could sell it and possibly get a house in Sweden instead to be closer to her sisters. He looks at his mother, with her slicked back bun and her wide lips that never seemed to truly smile. She was really beautiful, but she didn't seem to recognize him when he entered the room. "Sam" She'd whisper, and sometimes she'll hug him before she left in the mornings, but Sam didn't recognize her perfume anymore. He wonders to himself if he ever did.

August not only means blistering sunshine and even more freckles on Sam's shoulders and nose, but that school was just around the corner and the new dread of dealing with everyone at school and in Glee that knew about Sam's dad. He's barely just been able to walk down into the yard (which was still manicured how his father liked it, of course) and look at the city and not image his dad standing there with him, a scotch in his fat fingers. Sam still can't cry.

.

Sam swears he only had one glass of Vodka, but he's lying on his back, the carpet plush and softer than he remembered. Half of the Grey Goose is gone, and Puck is climbing up the trellis into his balcony.

"Puck-k-k-kerman!" Sam catcalls, giddy at the gruff loveliness that was Noah Puckerman. He doesn't get up as Puck stands over him, a discontented look on his face as he kneels down.

"Jesus, Sam." He mutters, lifting Sam's head and Sam's vaguely aware of how Noah's eye looks a little discolored, like a bruise -

"Puck!" Sam sputters, his fingers toughing as lightly as he can to the spot underneath Puck's eye. "Oh, god, what happened?"

Puck flinches away from Sam's hand, and scorned slightly in his drunkenness, he pulls away. "Don't worry about it, Sam."

"I do worry! I care! How fucking gay is that, Puck?" Sam cries out indignantly.

"Pretty fucking gay, Sam." Puck chuckles in spite of himself. He looks down for a second, then up through his eye lashes and Sam thinks, _wow_, he truly is perfect, so bright and burning and full of _fire. _Instead of saying any of those things, Sam rolls to his side, feeling the slushiness of the alcohol in his empty stomach. He grips the crème colored dresser and stands up, leaning heavily against the furniture. Sam can feel Puck looking at him with weariness. He rubs a shaky hand in his hair again, trying to smile.

He looks at Puck a second later, and he feels surprise at the disgust Puck has on his face. "Sam. God, you're wasting away. You're a fucking skeleton."

"Shut the fuck up," Sam snaps, before flinching back and laughing drunkenly to himself.

"No, fuck that, Sam, you're fucking killing yourself. You're _dying_, don't you get that?" Puck raises his voice, and Sam flinches again,_ god he was so drunk_. The light in Puck's eyes seemed to drown him, and Sam vaguely wishes that he hadn't been wearing his seat belt either, that he had died too, then maybe it could be easier than this, whatever this was -

"You don't care." Puck looks as if he's come to a realization.

"I do care about you!" Sam protests.

"No, you don't care about _yourself_, Sam. You're fucking with your life, man. You know what, look, I can't do this -"

"Leave. Everyone leaves."

Sam swears he only had one glass of Vodka, but Puck disappears and the sun sets, and suddenly the whole bottle is gone.

.

He wakes up drenched in his own puke and he can barely move. His head hurts so badly and his body feels so cold, even though it's August. He sees the bed and would just like to lie in it, would just like to fall asleep again, numb, and falling, falling, falling into nothingness. Sam tries to sit up and finds that he can't. It sounds like he can't feel his own heart in his ribcage, and he starts to count the beats as he stares up at the ceiling. His vision is unfocused, blurry, like when Puck complained about taking out his contacts and not having his glasses - _don't think about Puck_, Sam tells himself -

The counting becomes slower, and fewer, and farther between, and Sam swears he's floating - he's lighter than ever, skinny and fit and perfect. _This must be what dying feels like_, he thinks, and then, the counting stops.

.

Sam doesn't like white, and he's upset that everything in the afterlife is white. He indistinctly remembers hoping it'd be hot beaches with turquoise water and little umbrellas in the drinks, but instead it's blindingly white and smells slightly like Noah Puckerman.

"Sam?" There's a voice, and that sounds slightly like Noah Puckerman, also, and Sam never been a hugely religious person but he should have listened to Quinn and prayed and shit because this is not what his afterlife is supposed to be like. This must be some sick joke. "Sam? Hey, talk to me."

It takes a second for Sam to realize he's not dead, but he's very much in fact lying in his mother's bathtub with a towel around his head. Suddenly, Noah Puckerman comes into view, and his heart starts to beat, again. There's this lingering scent of puke in Sam's nostrils but also, lavender bath salts and men's body wash and a hint of pot.

"Puck?" Sam's throat hurts like hell, and the lights almost knock him out again. All he wants to do is sleep. Sam also wants to ask, _what happened_, or _why are you here_, or _do you know I kind of more than just like you_? But he asks none of these questions.

He only says, "You didn't leave."

.

There's broth in front of him in a white bowl with a sliver spoon and Sam wishes he had never worn his seatbelt.

"Sam."

Sam tries very hard not to make eye contact with Puck. It doesn't work because Puck's an asshole sometimes, and Sam decides that this is one of those times, because Puck grabs hold of Sam's chin and wrenches it up so they're looking eye-to-eye. "Eat, or I'm going to take you do the hospital and we'll be big gay boyfriends in front of everyone, and I'm going to have to kick your ass."

"I -" Sam starts, but he falters. "Oh, you think we're boyfriends now? I'm not even _that _gay, Puckerman."

"Oh yes you are, now drink your broth." Puck doesn't miss a beat, and Sam would throttle him if he had enough energy. The spoon feels like a ten pound weight. "It's, like, kosher." Puck adds, before slurping his in one gulp.

Sam takes a tiny sip and feels like his whole world might shatter, and he swears in that moment he hates Noah Puckerman more than anything. He hates him more than anything because Puck's supposedly a sex shark who likes girls and is a football star and throws gay kids in dumpsters and here they are watching _House_ in his mother's master bedroom and being big gay cuddly _boyfriends. _He also hates Puck because Sam's heart is in his hands, and at any moment, it might be crushed.

.

By the end of August, Sam's gained fourteen of the thirty-two pounds he's lost, and Puck slides his hands into Sam's sun-streaked hair. They're cocooned in Sam's duvet, the windows thrown open as dawn breaks. Puck's got finger smudges around his neck and they make Sam almost cry, and secretly that makes Sam feel alive because he's never been able to truly cry actual tears. Puck swears that he could take his father in a heart beat if he wanted to, and that the bastard will be gone by the time school starts because nobody will be at home to slap around. Sam shivers at the thought of someone like Puck being throttled, but then again, Sam has made Puck livid more than once and he's probably done his fair share of harm.

Sam's learned, that like his own wounds, some of Puck's aren't visible.

Puck feathers kisses down Sam's throat and moves to his collar bone, and Sam bites his lips in an attempt not to smile. He wraps a hand around the back of Puck's neck and brings his face up to kiss, Puck's eyes wild and alive with mischief. He rolls his tanned shoulders back, taking Sam's hips and holding them steady, his fingers easily sliding off Sam's boxer-briefs. Sam stifles a groan as Puck's hand comes into contact with his dick, Puck giving a rakish smile as he flicks his wrist, eliciting another moan from Sam. His lips attach to Sam's collarbone again, and Sam can feel him whisper little nothings into his bones.

"Sam," Puck stops, and Sam frowns for moment, because he was this close and, really, what the hell could he need to say that was so important he had to interrupt -

"I want to have sex with you."

Oh. That.

Sam's heart stutters briefly and he feels nervousness and excitement pile up in his throat. There's a tenderness in Puck's earnest face that Sam's almost sure that no one else has ever seen before. He nods mutely, scared that if he speaks he might let out something embarrassing (like I love you).

"Do you have any…stuff?" Puck asks, and Sam's taken aback by how suddenly anxious Puck seems, and Sam pretends to ignore the slight shake in Puck's hands as he directs him to the bathroom were there's a bottle of lube from a past fling - which was how he ended up at McKinley, but Sam doesn't want to think about _that_ - Not when Puck has a raging hard on and it's constricting wonderfully in his maroon boxers. Puck disappears into the bathroom before entering Sam's bedroom. To Sam's amusement, he closes the bedroom door even though no one else is home. There's a fluttering in his stomach, and Sam realizes for the first time that he's not feeling hunger, but butterflies.

The comforter jostles as Puck crawls back under it, Sam's hair displayed like a halo on the pillows. In a moment that Sam would not admit was totally sweet and totally gay, he brushed his fingers against Puck's cheek bone, keeping the memorization in his fingertips were he ever to forget. Puck lines himself on top of Sam, and Sam peels back Puck's boxers, pressing his palms into Puck's lower back. Puck rocks against him, slowly, as if testing it out, and Sam almost shudders from the friction between their dicks rubbing together.

He hears the cap pop open and the lube is cool as Puck circles it inside of him, first using one finger and curling it inside of Sam, and then he adds another. It was better than it had ever been before, because Sam had never gone past this and he'd never had wanted to go past this before, and when Puck looked at him he didn't feel so - so - so _ugly_.

His lips open into a delicious groan and he finds his voice to ask Puck, "Should I turn onto my stomach?"

But he shakes his head. "No. I want to see you."

Puck slicks himself with lubricant, holding himself above Sam with his elbows. Sam runs his fingers up along Puck's forearms, his breath shaking. "Are you okay?" Puck asks, maneuvering to kiss Sam's cheek. Sam can barely feel it.

Sam nods, and Puck pushes in.

It burns, a lot like the Vodka Sam had drank and then thrown up, before Sam doesn't tell him to stop; Puck has this look on his face like Hanukkah has come early and Sam's not about to ruin that - he whimpers slightly and then Puck stops, looking at Sam with an intensity that radiates. "Sam?"

"Just, go slow." Sam murmurs, and is shocked and embarrassed that his eyelashes are wet. Puck nods, solemnly, and pulls out, before taking a moment and pushing back in. He takes one of his hands and pulls at Sam's waist so that his angle hits Sam differently, and all of a sudden, Sam swears he's seeing stars.

"Oh my god, do that again," Sam moans, and Puck grins and mutters something that sounds something like, 'bamf' but Sam isn't sure. Puck thrusts as Sam shifts his hips up, meeting in the middle and the stars appear again. Puck quickens his pace, and then falters for a moment.

"Is this okay?" He asks, and when Sam nods vigorously, the burning sensation ebbing away and replacing a intense, white hot spasm pooling in his lower stomach, making his toes curl. Puck plunges in deeper than before, and they find a rhythm together as the sun rises above them.

Sam's close, he's _this _close, and in the heat of the moment Puck suddenly grasps Sam's hand, and their fingers intertwine, like possibility and impossibility. When Puck shouts Sam's name, Sam can't think of anything quite so amazing as the way his voice had sounded, hoarse and gruff and needy. Sam replays it over and over in his head when Puck pulls out of him. He comes a moment later into Puck's hand, a small sigh escaping his lips.

Puck looks like he's drifting off to sleep when Sam sidles up closer to him, poking him in the cheek. "Hey, Puckerman."

Puck opens one eye lazily. "You're my big gay boyfriend, you know." Sam quips, and Puck rolls his eyes.

"Am not." He mutters, before wrapping an arm around Sam and tucking him into his arms. "Now come here, Evans. It's cold and I'm not getting up to close the window."

.

**When you're too in love to let it go**

**But if you never try**

**Then you'll never know**

**.**

Oh dear did I completely ruin them? love to hear a yes or a no!


End file.
